


The Third Hand

by NerumiH



Category: Evillious Chronicles, Vocaloid
Genre: (this is a repost from quite a few months ago!), F/M, Memory Alteration, Songfic, Tailor Shop on Enbizaka, adds this to Evillious but PS i just kinda rewrote the song with all the wrong names, lots of me pretending i know what sewing is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 06:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14349627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerumiH/pseuds/NerumiH
Summary: I line my shears up with the mark. The dusk pours into the shop. We all slide into different slats of light. Different worlds, where I can watch their affection safely, like a forgotten spirit. I cut.–  The Tailor Shop on Enbizaka.Luka / Kaito.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Out of all the deadly sins songs, I think this one’s my favourite when it comes to both story and song…and it was about time I put my grubby little hands on something ELSE with an already-established canon. And turn like four events into 14k. LISTEN I LIKE TO HAVE FUN OKAY
> 
> Title is a little lazy (all of mine are); ‘third hand’ is a sewing term, and idk, there’s like, supposedly a mysterious third person/murderer in here, so, uh, (idk I just wanted it posted) (the best titles have to be explained)

Kaito Shion has just moved to the village, and with him he brings money, a nonsensical invoice, and the cloying scent of sage.

It bites slightly at my nose as I retake his measurements, the original invoice on a nearby table. I can’t help the curiosity; where is this scent from? What odd thing does he smoke? Does his home fog with incense at all hours? It’s just past lunchtime. Perhaps an afternoon in the dim, carrying over some strange ritual from wherever he came. City mice are strange.

Shaking my head at the paper, I say, “This invoice must be scrapped. I’ll have to make you another.”

I touch his arm to let him lower it; he says through a bashful chuckle, “Damn. I was charged and everything for that.”

“Charging you for mere measurements? And wrong measurements, at that?” He suddenly won’t meet my eyes, but not in the haughty way I usually tolerate from out-of-towners who pass through. In an embarrassed way. It’s almost sweet. I try to sound less frosty by adding, “At this rate, I’ll be the poorest tailor in all of Japan.”

Nearly looks at me. Somewhere between my nose and the blunt cut of my fringe. “Well, I was moving in a couple days, and she said she couldn’t make a new set by then…of course, she told me that _after_ she’d gone through all this trouble…so I just…”

I fold the measuring tape in my hands. “You didn’t have a wife to take the measurements for free?”

He laughs again. “Well…”

Answer enough, from a young, handsome man like him. I move back to let him step off the small platform, and I fetch a palm-sized blue notebook from the table. As I flip to a clean page, I finally take in his face, straight-on.

I note his measurements in my book as I watch. I can take in a moment like it lasts an age. His hair is a dark blue, tousled from his hat but he wears the look as if it was mussed by some perilous, courageous deed. Eyes, too, not frozen in smile because nothing about him is cold, maybe designed that way, crinkled at the edges; not the permanent smile of hounds or overconfident men. It doesn’t make me feel like an evil snow queen for being stiff and awkward. It makes me feel like I’m of marble, still and unforgiving only to be carved into something better. Something I’ve been dreaming of that he, finally, can see.

He’s pretty in the way that all new shiny things are. He is still something to be learned, memorized. From the moment he walked in, I felt that rising ravenous need to do so – like turning for ages in the mirror to see how a new dress fits.

I close the book and lead him to the front of the shop.

As a tailor, I am detailed. As the best tailor in the village, I am scrutinizing. I can find one thread that weaves improperly in a tapestry of thousands, a double-breasted embroidery a glance off its symmetry, and most definitely a figure incorrectly measured. As soon as I’d opened the page of scribbled numbers, I knew they were all spot-on. 178 centimetre height – yes, obvious even before he took off his shoes or ducked from his hat, for that’s 2 centimetres taller than I. I’ve tailored enough clothes to guess an average of arm length, shoulder width, and this all matched up to the decimal. Hell, this wasn’t listed, but I’d wager a shoe size around 28, maybe 27 if the fabric wears out.

But he’s probably like most people. Every time he goes to buy shoes, he tries on all the wrong sizes first. People are so unaware of their own bodies sometimes.

I say with a gentle smile, “I’m sorry you hired such a shrew. For your trouble, I won’t charge you for this appointment. How does that sound?”

He grins with relief. “You had me scared there. Thank you so much.”

I don’t want to take his money. I just didn’t want him to drop off the paper and leave without treating me to that smile. That laugh.

“I do honest business. Sometimes it’s easy to be tempted to do things like this,” I indicate the original invoice, “but lies tend to show themselves when other eyes look at them.”

He leans forwards. Now that money’s off the table, he’s warmed up, teasing in his stance. I wonder if he isn’t as well-off as I thought. “What if there’s no one else to do the looking?”

I meet his eye with a sly smile that I hope he’ll take as humorous. “Thank you for your business, Mr. Shion.”

He shallowly bows. As he steps away, the sage is heady, melting into the rest of the room like a low, warm fog.

**.x.**

The shop, beneath my living quarters, is technically open during all day hours; the village is small enough that we all understand that they have to first visit for appointments, and we all understand to not fuss when I put a note that I’m out. It’s always been this way – before it was my shop, it was where I fumbled through sewing dresses for my dolls or hairpins for myself, at my mother’s side.

I close down the shop and lock my blue notebook in the drawer under the rolls of satin. That one keeps the information on all my clients; the only changes I have to make are usually for tourists or when the village children start growing fast. New people are rare.

As I go to the stairs, I spot an unfamiliar coat on the chair – Kaito’s. The fabric is bright and sunny, the lining soft. It holds that wonderful smoky smell. He must have forgotten it. _I hope he wasn’t so popular today that he forgets what woman’s place he left it at,_ I think, smirking.

But being put over my arm, it surprises me a second time: a folded note slips from an inner pocket. The stationary is printed with little green flowers. What’s one more step in being intrusive? I open it.

The smudging shows that it must have been pocketed while the ink was wet. The name at the bottom is nearly illegible, but I can see the beginning: _Mei._

Mei? Mei, who? That doesn’t sound like any villagers I know. I can feel my heart sinking as I tear through the rest. It’s only a few lines, but it feels like it takes an hour.

Flustered, I fold it back up. It was inoffensive. But it was in a voice that was _familiar_ to him. A woman’s handwriting. A woman’s voice, real to him beyond this page. A flush rises in me as if I’ve just realised there’s a whispered joke about me.

I tuck it in my sleeve and hurry upstairs to bed. It’s none of my business. I’m being foolish – I can’t tease about him being popular and then be offended when I’m proven right.

Once I’m in my apartment, I feel much calmer, as if I’ve left the ghost of him and this stranger behind. I carelessly toss the note into a box beneath my table with other little things that patrons forget and don’t want back – buttons that I replace free of charge, glass cloths, to-do lists. Perhaps if we become closer, I’ll be able to taunt him with it. No matter.

I redress and follow the line of my bedside table in the dim until my fingers bump against another notebook. Red, so I don’t mix them up. This one is fuller, and always rests near the ink.

My mother and I were very similar, or perhaps we _are,_ since I appear to have grown into her; the same pink hair wore glossy down our backs, the same chilly disposition made for strict business, the same artistry. But out of all I inherited down to the way we like our tea and hate spring’s wet weather, I somehow lost her memory.

I fill in the date. Record my morning activities with approximate times. 5:40, dressed. 6 to 6:30, cooked and ate. 6:45 to 8, prepared to open the shop. I write what I’ll need to buy tomorrow for dinner, and my earlier appointments.

10:00 a.m.: Gumi, a sweet girl who lives over the creek, spilled paint over her yukata again and I’ll be reissuing the commission (I wasn’t offended; I’ve learned a lot about embroidery since I last made it for her). She brought me a little woven bracelet she made.

12:00 p.m.: lunch. Same as usual, since I must rush.

1:00 p.m.: Miki wants to add to her collection of hairpieces, all more sparkly than the last; that girl belongs in the big city. Lily dropped her off. That delinquent girl won’t stop smoking. She belongs in the city, too, but in a different district.

And Kaito. We’ll discuss the details later, but there will be three pieces. A kosode, a haori, and hakama, for the autumn season, because he heard that it gets cold early here, and yet we’re all crazy enough to hold our local festivals once the leaves start to turn. He wants to see the traditions. _We’re becoming soulless, up the capital._

Kaito, a client. Kaito. Shion. Mr. Shion. That is all. That is all. The note is a stupid distraction. I am not a teenager anymore, prepping and primping and peacocking to fall in love with any men that looks my way.

I let the ink dry.

**.x.**

“Turn,” I instruct.

He does, so his back is to me. I examine the lines I’ve drawn with chalk on the dark fabric of the haori, glancing between that and the drawing on my paper. Something doesn’t seem to measure up right.

“Turn.”

He does. Side to me. Pivots on a heel, effortless until he boyishly stumbles. His cuff sways, a few centimetres too short, around slim ankles.

“Turn.”

Facing me. An extended arm drops slightly. I didn’t tell him he had to keep them up, but he’s still trying for me, awkward and willing to please. For a second as he adjusts I think it’s unfair that men’s clothing is so frustratingly shapeless. Artless.

I tilt my head. “Won’t you…?”

Kaito awkwardly runs a hand through his hair. That self-effacing smile. “Are you trying to make me dizzy?”

“Yes, then maybe you’ll hand over too much yen.” I touch my chin and frown slightly. The ensemble is made of test fabrics that I can use as my canvas as we try to solve how to put together the designs of the dye and embroidery.

“Unconventional tactic. Most businessmen just try to get me drunk.”

I laugh. His smile brightens. I have seen more of that today: nothing seems to make him smile so easily than making me do the same. It is without pride. Without conquest.

“Take a look here,” I say, stepping in beside him with the drawing. He leans in. In the muggy September heat, the smell of his skin permeates like smoke. “How about we add something along the collar it so it’s less empty? What do you think?”

Enthusiastically, he nods. He won’t touch the paper as if he doesn’t want to ruin my drawing, so he points a few centimetres away. “Along here? What about more laurel?”

I draw in a few of the plain leaves on the halo he instructs. “You know, most men don’t bother with patterns. You’re an oddity.”

“I don’t want it to be boring. If I wanted boring, I would have gone to some shop along the road to this town.” Kaito imitates the way I’m holding my chin, giving me a sly look. “You come highly recommended for your artistry, Miss Megurine.”

I click my tongue. “I wasn’t reprimanding you. I normally dread men’s clothing. Plain navy, black, perhaps a pinstripe if I’m lucky. You, however…” We both peer at the drawing. From the hems burst wild greenery, blooms, noted in gold and blue, leaves and petals dancing free in invisible tides. A mix of stencil and embroidery to weigh it and add texture. He’s like a child allowed free reign in a candy shop for the first time.

Unabashed at his exuberance, Kaito gestures at the laurel. “Do you know what it means?”

“It’s a leaf.”

He grins. He has the teeth of someone who’s never smoked, so the sage continues to be a mystery. “This is the laurel wreath. Did you know that in Greece they use it to crown champions? It’s a symbol of honor and victory.”

I narrow my eyes at him and say with joking suspicion, “How do you know this?”

“Reading about the world.”

“How do I know you’re not lying? I have no Greeks to ask.” I shake a finger at him. “Remember what I once said about lies?”

He laughs. “It’s not a lie, I promise.”

“What are you a champion of, then?”

He opens his hands in a shrug and wavers on the answer. “I’ve been known to make a couple vaguely recognisable paintings. Of rocks. Or so everyone interprets.”

I giggle behind my hand.

“Maybe the design is from me getting ahead of myself.”

“Nonsense. It’s admirable to try, and so I crown you.” I delicately fold the page in half and lift it above his head.

“No, it’s like this, over there.” He gently takes the paper from me and folds it a couple more times, so loosely that it’s nearly rolled into a long rectangle, and sets it lightly on my hair, low in the back, circling up above my ears. His palms brush my temples. I think about the simplicity of leaning my head into one of them, and all the implications that it brings with it.

I touch his wrists to lower his hands. His skin is soft; he’s likely never worked a day in his life, and that suddenly seems thrilling, as if he’s royalty with his worldliness and his ease. The early September dusk slips through the room, folding between the wood and rice paper and glass into foggy layers that bloom painfully in the corner of my eye and cast him in light that seems to shift. Blur. Transform, as though we float in the veil between day and night, between certain and delirious.

Thankfully, before I do something stupid, the bell on the door jingles. I jump away but Kaito seems unaffected – we turn to the door to find a brunette woman in bright red clothing and embers in her stare.

Kaito unfolds the drawing and hands it to me. He says, “I probably made the appointment go too long, didn’t I, Meiko?”

The name cuts through me, sharp as my shears. She moves into the room; the image of her burns in the doorway, smears like ash as she approaches, long dusk shadow chewing viciously to my feet. She smells overpoweringly like smoke and sage.

The smell was her. The note was her. She’s shorter than me. Heavier than me. Her hair is dull, short but the style outgrown. Embarrassingly, she must be older than him. This is her?

_This_ is her?

Not some foolish schoolgirl?

A real woman. Stinking up my shop.

My mind sneers, but my hands are suddenly fumbling for the paper; I’ve dropped it. I duck down. I think I apologize. I’d forgotten to bow. Sure, she may be _her_ , but she’s still a patron, and I have to pretend I’m not the doe-eyed fool she certainly thinks I am.

She says, a million miles away, “You should be home by now, don’t you think? Did you make good progress today?”

Neither were questions. They were both demands to leave. I secure the drawing in the blurry light. A painting over a painting, the light layers, searing hot. I get to my feet, lightheaded.

I say slowly with a belated bow, “My apologies for taking your time. I’ll make all the requested adjustments and show you the design at our next appointment, then we can begin the real work.”

“Sounds fantastic.” Kaito grins. He moves to step beside the woman. I have to stare through her. She’s sucking away all the light. The smell is burnt, ashes festered for too long. We say goodbye. I clean up as if in a dream.

**.x.**

It’s too early for me to have a broken heart – it wasn’t even tended. It wasn’t even looked at.

But what about the rest of me? I was watching him all this time; he must have been watching me in return. When did he decide that I wasn’t her? When did he decide I wasn’t worth it?

My mother’s long, pink hair; I brush through it, standing before the mirror. I draw it off my shoulder; my mother’s icy pale skin, showing every burn and prick from the needle like blood in armour. My mother’s eyes, wicked in the right light.

My mother’s sharpened shears. Does he like women like that? Short hair, trimmed proper like a neutered housewife? Why would he? I slip a fistful of glossy pink hair between the blades.

A few tiny threads of hair float to the floor.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I take a deep breath. I let go of the hair; it fans free. I set the shears on the sink. What are they doing in this room, anyways? I wonder if something to drink will calm me down. Something strong.

5:40 a.m.: dressed.

6:00 a.m. to 6:50 a.m.: cooked, ate, cleaned kitchen.

7:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m.: prepared and opened shop.

So on. So on.

That night, writing in my red book, I don’t mention Meiko. The woman. Her. The shadow. Hardly real at all. If the tides of time will wash her from my memory, then so be it. It’ll be more pleasant for us both.

**.x.**

She comes in the next day with him. No matter how much I ask for space or patience, I can’t seem to make her go away, and it turns the whole appointment into a stressful, awkward dance, like I’m trying to perform for judges whose rubric I do not know.

Worst of all, my attention is drawn from him, and onto her. She laughs loudly, unlike me, who grins behind a hand. She’s fashionable, while I am in a slack, plain uniform. I’ve never thought myself ugly, but next to her, I feel too tall, too reserved, too sharp. Maybe he likes her because that fire in her eyes can also be warm. I am coloured like winter and she is summer. He doesn’t like the cold. Didn’t he say that? About our festivals? _You people are crazy. It’s too cold._

_You’re crazy._

She always comes in a red kimono, with golden laurels. Laurel, meaning victor.

I watch him wrap his fingers around hers. I flatten fabric. I hear the hush of her whisper. I line my shears up perfectly with the mark. The dusk pours into the shop. We all slide into different slats of light. Different worlds, where I can watch their affection safely, like a forgotten spirit. I cut.

**.x.**

_Kaito? Kaito, hm…_

_Well, he’s worldly, you know. He’s too modest with his money to dream about travelling far across Japan, but he comes from the capital region, did you know? He’s managed to get knowledge about all sorts of places overseas. It’s strange to me, as well! Ah, you see, the world is changing…all cities hold secrets, and it isn’t just the traitors or the criminals who are privy to them…_

_But he paints as well. He says he isn’t good, but he mostly does so to appease his niece. His older brother passed away when she was a baby…she lives with her grandparents most of the time, but he takes care of her during the holidays. Isn’t that wonderful? And all with his own money, too! I think there’s shame in men thinking that family is all a woman’s business. That woman, the mother, well, she ran off – so much for that belief, hm?_

_He must like a woman who values family too._

_Me?_

_Ah, I’d never really thought of children._

_Or of the world outside._

_My mother? Oh, she was a wonderful mother; it isn’t about her. She was kind and a hard worker, but in a way, she ran off as well…_

_What if she gave that propensity to me, the same way she gave me her pink hair?_

_…Can Kaito sense that, do you think…?_

_What does he see in me…what disgraceful things…that I can’t yet see in myself?_

**.x.**

The morning is in chaos. It’s dawn, but the streets are dark and icy as I stand outside the shop, watching the dust of the road swirl behind the troops. The very atmosphere feels brittle. I hug my clothing close to me.

Kaito has an appointment today.

Gumi scurries to my side, green hair a mess and cheeks blotchy from running. She grabs my arm and nearly tips me off balance. “Luka! Oh, good, it wasn’t you, thank god, thank _god_.”

“Wasn’t me?”

“That was hurt. You know how they suck at being clear until it’s too late with these things. Crime things. Oh, my god. Do you know who it was? Where are they going? Did you see?”

I hug myself tighter, a chill squirming down my back. “Someone’s hurt?”

“It happened last night, apparently. That’s all I’ve got.” Gumi chews her lip, hopping from foot to foot. “I hope they’re okay. Luka, I’m really scared.”

Of course she is. In a town as small as this, there’s no chance that she didn’t know who was hurt – and who did it. I feel as if I’m weightless, suddenly unsure where I stand. I wrap an arm around Gumi’s shoulder to steady us both.

The world feels fissured from when I went to bed and now, as if someone swept me up while I slept and dropped in an unfamiliar dreamland. Gumi hugs me back but I can’t sense her warmth.

“I should…” I swallow, trying to focus on getting feeling back to my flesh. “There’s no helping it. We’ll learn what happened soon…I should work.”

“Can I come with?” Gumi asks, her voice starting to thicken.

“It’ll keep your mind off of it. And we’ll be together when we hear the news.” I stare down the street, but the light blooms hard and makes it hard to see what’s happening, so far off. I know I’m speaking the truth and yet it isn’t permeating. Not even my logic belongs here; not even my voice.

It could have been anyone.

It could have been him.

**.x.**

The villagers think the same.

It was a murder – a woman from another town, recently moved here. I don’t know her name and faces pale in shame when they can’t answer the question either. She was lonesome and anonymous, it seems. Not even I knew her, and most people visit my gleaming shop for at least a hairpiece to say that they’ve been on Enbizaka Street.

None of our villagers are capable of murder. So it must have been the foreigner.

I don’t believe it for a moment, so I wade confidently through the swamp of suspicion and hate on my way to Kaito’s home. The address was on his invoice – he said he could repay me for all his excessive requests with sweets or dinner, but I never took him up on the offer. Maybe he’ll need my company, now that the village has turned on him.

No one comes to the door when I knock, so, holding my breath, I slip inside. It takes a little wandering, but I find him dreary and exhausted-looking at an empty dining table. The sight of him nearly brings me to tears: he is the personification of all the fear and sadness that now drowns the streets.

He looks up; his eyes are bleary. I notice he’s holding some parchment but he stuffs them away when he lifts to greet me. I don’t know what else to do so I let him do so.

“Miss Megurine,” he says. “How are you?”

“The fear is poisonous. I, well,” I smile painfully, “I ran out of clothing to sew. It was all that was distracting me.”

Something about this house makes my skin crawl, but I sit at the table with him anyways after a moment of mutual, shaky hesitation. He looks exhausted, the light to his eyes extinguished and pooled with smeary purple underneath. He’s definitely been crying.

My heart fills. All this pain, brought unabashed to the surface, for some passersby he couldn’t have known. Is it fear – the fear of being next, or the fear of persecution – that makes him frail like this? Or is it an unimaginable, excruciating depth of empathy? I knew from the start that he was a good, sensitive person.

I can’t help it – I touch his arm. I whisper, “I’m sorry,” but can’t let go. It takes a moment, but he puts his hand on mine, heavy and meaningful. He won’t look at me. A man’s strict regulation of emotion, armoured too late – I can sense him shaking.

I lick my lips and sigh. “My mother and I were once new to this town. I believe we moved here when I was six or so – nearly twenty years ago, now. She was modest, strict, and few people knew her intimately, as she tried to work hard and build everything on her own. I imagine taking care of me took away from her social time, as well.”

He runs his hand through his hair again. He’s listening.

“When I was thirteen, I – I still don’t understand why. And so it’s hard to phrase. You heard me, just now, I explained why my mother didn’t make friends. I like knowing reason. But I don’t have a reason for this. When I was thirteen, I found that she had killed herself.”

He squeezes my hand, finally looking at me. I should veer off this quickly. This moment isn’t about me. So I neglect mentioning how I don’t remember any of it; I only know what the village told me. I came home and she had hung herself. No one knows what happened in the time between when I found her and when I ran outside. Sometimes, that emptiness bleeds throughout my life until I can hardly remember her face when she was alive.

I say, “There was a darkness that followed. A sadness that cannot be quantified. Everyone was covered in shadow and mourning, even if they hardly knew us. It was like a storm that wouldn’t rest, flooding homes, deafening on the rooves.”

I take his palm in both of my hands, lifting it between us. He looks as if he’ll speak but I hold his hands near my heart and whisper, hoping he will hear from wherever I’ve lost him to, “Loss permeates this town. No matter who it is, we feel it intimately, like a blade to our own heart. You aren’t alone in grief.”

**.x.**

Starting that afternoon, I move my work to his home. There isn’t anything left to do, so I design some new presents for the younger girls of the town in order to keep myself busy. Even in tragedy, I still have a business. I still am a business. I can’t slip now.

Kaito helps me bring armloads of satin and cotton to his home, all the way at the other end of Enbizaka. We carry shears and thread and needles in heavily decorated boxes, bits of gems and chains and clips for hairpieces, and personal effects like my notebooks. Some of these boxes get heavy, but he doesn’t complain. I think he might even be brightening up.

To distract us both, I teach him some basics of tailoring. We sit in that little room with the table pushed away, a shifting sea of richly coloured fabrics all over the floor.

“You must be a better tailor than painter,” I say, approving a pair of hakama for Gakupo that he’s hemmed perfectly.

“Maybe so. You know, Miss Megurine…”

“Just _Luka_ is fine.” I fold up the pants and glance at him; he’s looking at the drawing for his haori. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Yes. I mean, not wrong, but I’d like to make an alteration…”

“Of course. What is it?”

He touches his finger to those laurel wreaths that gave us such a pain earlier. “These. Can you remove these?”

I lift an eyebrow at him, but I’m too polite to make a fuss and he doesn’t look like he has the energy to. “Certainly. I’ll redraw it tomorrow.”

There’s the patter of timid footsteps at the entry. I look up to find a teenage girl with a scrutinizing gaze, but any intensity in that is muffled by the shock of her long, teal hair. Even tied in two tails, it’s down to her calves – even longer than mine.

“Ah, who’s this?” I ask her.

She snubs me and looks at Kaito instead. “I’ll be starting dinner in an hour. Don’t tell me I’m making food for three.”

Kaito rubs his face, thinking. I’ve noticed that questions now seem to take an inordinate amount of energy for him to process and answer. Has he been sleeping? It’s only been one night since the murder. Did he have nightmares? Gakupo trained in theatrical samurai arts – I wonder if having that eccentric neighbour room with him would make this out-of-towner feel safer.

I answer for him. “I’ll be heading home soon. Don’t worry about me.”

The teenager is still not looking at me. Her manners are abhorrent. And what is she doing here? She’s much too young for him, even if she is very pretty. Everything about her is striking: that hair, her thick black lashes, her youthful rosebud lips. She’s girlishly thin. Does he like thin girls like that?

Kaito pats the spot beside him on the floor. He offers a tired smile – he’s trying his best. “Why don’t you join us for now? Maybe we can teach you a few things. Or Miss Megurine can. I can cheer you on.”

“Is _this_ what you’ve been doing?” She scowls.

“You don’t know how to sew?” I ask her. Even Gumi knows the basics. All dignified girls do. I wonder if she’s from the city too, where they stopped bothering with such a thing. If they think it’s trivial, I’d like to show them the art that I do.

The girl shrugs. She daintily sits next to Kaito, where he shows her how he’s cutting to create the front panels of Yuki’s gift kimono. She’s a small girl so I gave that project to him – if he messed up, replacing the fabric wouldn’t be too much of a sacrifice. The teenager seems to only partially be paying attention, and her long hair is draping all over her lap and work station. How does she manage it? Does he like it that way – the shine, the heavy way it falls?

I’m getting distracted. I let Kaito explain it to her (only stepping in when he misses something or she’s obviously not listening), and watch her work. Anyone can measure. Anyone can cut. Not anyone can do these things properly.

She’s leaning over the white fabric. That teal hair curtains all around her, falling in her way no matter how insistently she pushes it back. Kaito helps her. He combs away a ponytail, fingers relaxed and brushing her shoulder. A familiar action. Sweeping that hair away, maybe to kiss a cheek, kiss her lips – ?

“Ah, damn it.” The teenager tosses down the scissors and huffs. She twitches her hand and a fair chunk of long teal strands of hair float to the fabric. She’s cut her own hair.

“Not like you don’t have enough to spare,” Kaito says with a little smile.

“Very funny.” She brushes herself off with angry smacks and gets to her feet. “I can’t believe you’d rather be doing this with _her_ than be with me. She better be gone. I don’t want to eat alone again.” Before letting him answer, she starts her menacing sweep to the door, hair fanning like a flag.

“Hey, one moment, Miku. Forgetting something?”

The teenager groans and stops at the door. She turns back to me and gives a sneer. “Nice to meet you, Miss Megurine.” And then she’s gone again.

Kaito smiles awkwardly at me. “Sorry. She’s normally a lot more, uh…This isn’t very easy for her either.”

“I understand.” Grief is a lot harder to sympathize with when it manifests so distastefully. Especially on her. A girl that demanding and spoiled – what kind of frail man likes a girl like that?

Am I getting ahead of myself? No – I think I’m right to be a little curious. A little concerned. Why else would she be here other than if she was with him? How disgusting. I chew my lip and begin to fold Miki’s kimono. “She may be right. It’s time for me to go.”

“I’m really sorry. I’ll talk to her.”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it. The girls here were teenagers once, too,” I say. The word feels acidic in my mouth. Is he really that kind of man? I snatch Yuki’s kimono, brushing the hair off into the mess of fabric. “I’ll just take what I need for work tonight. I’m sure she’ll be able to spare you for tomorrow morning, right?”

“Luka, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I snatch my notebooks and bag and hurry to my feet. He looks pained. I really don’t want to go. But I don’t want to see them together anymore. I don’t want to see him brush back her hair so gently. “Have a good night, Kaito.”

I leave without running into her, but I take a wrong turn and end up near the back of the house. I’m in such a panic that it’s only when I try to turn around that the wall of smell hits me – sage.

Burning incense, mixed with sage. It’s in a nearby room. The kitchen? My heart slams against my ribcage, making me feel unbalanced, overwhelmed with heat and panic and the stench. There’s something buried deep within it. I feel a hinge loosening in the slat of light in which I stand. Bright light, morning light, real light. That emptiness is flooding in.

I run down the hall to the front door – the fresh air swallows me up and cleanses me like a waterfall, so immediate and full that I lose my breath.

It’s gone.

That cloying, biting smell.

Where does it come from? Why is it hurting me? I smell my sleeves, my hair. Do I still sense it there…clinging to me?

My heart slams the entire run back to my shop, eyes pinning me from patios. Her eyes were so blue, framed in dark lashes like wings. If she was that rude to him when I was there, then how cruel is she behind closed doors?

If I just put all my things away and get organised, I’ll calm down. I could sweep and dust too, if my mind won’t rest – both a distraction and useful work can be done, if I decide to use my panic instead of letting it use me.

I open the sliding door to the storage room. Stacks of fabric loom over me, trembling in their cases as I stomp around, organizing colour, texture, finished pieces from half-finished from scrap fabric from smooth, fresh rolls. Soon my arms are empty of the gift kimonos, and instead, I tug a red kimono from the shelf.

It’s all finished – but it’s in the wrong place, silly me. I open it and hold it before me. It has stencils, shining inks on the deep, rich red fabric. This red is incredibly beautiful. The depth of contrast between it and the white skin of my hands is striking, like old-fashioned royalty.

It’s a little daring, but maybe because all my blood is going to my limbs for running and away from my brain, I suddenly strip and fumble into this kimono. As soon as it’s clumsily tied, I feel whatever is haunting me release its infernal grip. The kimono lays heavy on my shoulders, weight like warm arms. The fabric slides like water. It’s a little short for me, but I step lightly in it.

I turn it in the dim light. The stencils are laurel leaves. Kaito told me they were for champions, victors. I wonder if the commissioner of this kimono knew that as well, or maybe they thought it was just pretty?

Pretty on the fabric, but stunning on me.

**.x.**

Kaito and I will continue our work today. I dress modestly as usual, and slowly brush my hair before the mirror. My notes from last night are a little embarrassing, but I must be honest to myself – yes, I cleaned my storage room, but I also spent an infernal amount of time prancing around in that kimono like a girl at her first festival.

The brush snags. I give it a hard tug, twitching my head. Parting the hair so I can get a better look at the knot, I see that it’s not that at all – it’s a tiny braid behind my ear, tied tight.

That’s odd. Did I let one of the village girls play with my hair? But this is so well-done, knots tiny and precise like those at the ends of threads.

I lift it from my hair and squint at it. It shines strangely. As I unravel it, I see why: sewn within are a dozen thick teal hairs, tickling coquettishly at my calves.

…I shouldn’t be late to see Kaito. I hope the villagers forgive my store being closed another day.

**.x.**

The days pass as usual. With Kaito’s help, I’ve finished Yuki’s gift, and Miki’s just needs some finishing touches. The darkness seems to be steadily receding, but it sits heavily on me whenever I go back to that house.

I’m beginning to suspect some things.

Did he know her, the women who died?

When did he meet her? After me, certainly. I met him on the first day he came to town. So why did she distract him?

I’m beginning to think that I’ll have to take the initiative if he’s going to be so quiet and so demure. Perhaps I’ll invite him for lunch in my apartment. It does no good for him to be stuck in that house, anyways.

I begin to tidy up. Another thing that was my mother’s and mine – we are neat and organised, but we always seem to find something out of place, whether that’s a thread or a spot of dust or a distasteful person. We don’t let these things settle. This is truly a house I can be proud of. Did he say – did I hear, he likes housewife types? I’m fiercely independent but it counts if I have a spotless, friendly house and can make dinner, right?

I end up in my bedroom. The red notebook is tossed to the floor – I must have accidentally done that when reaching for the lantern in the night. I pick it up and find that there are empty spots in yesterday’s schedule.

And the day before.

That’s not like me. I have to be responsible about this – it’s not as if I’m an idiot who forgets where I put my shoes when I take them off, but what’s the point of being strict if I let myself slack off like this?

I trace my finger on the filled times. It’s all the same sort of thing. Yesterday I went to the market to pick up more specially ordered fabric and groceries – I remember that perfectly. But what did I do afterwards? Well, I must have gone to see Kaito, right?

Why would I have gotten groceries and not made a meal? Perhaps I did that for him. Yes, that sounds right… I already made lunch for him, and we ate it in his little home in that room where we sew.

Of course. How could I forget that? I shake my head, smiling to myself, as I fill in the notebook. I prepared him lunch here, and then brought it down the street to his home as a surprise. I’m sure if I check my kitchen I’ll find the smell of broth and the pots tacky with starch. He’d liked it, didn’t he? Of course he did. He likes housewife things like that.

That girl with the teal hair isn’t at all like me. She complained about dinner. She complained about him. She had an attitude that any mother should have disciplined out of her children. If she didn’t have a mother, that would make sense – it at least lends credence as to why she’s being such a whore.

Well, I must not have gotten much sleep last night, that’s why I forgot to write all this.

…Why would I have stayed out so late?

Enough of this. The mind isn’t made to be prodded and poked and made to perform like some trained animal. If I can’t remember right now, it’ll come to me later, like how a dream comes back in bits and pieces. It would be torture, after all, to remember every second of your life.

I sweep through the kitchen. I bump up against that box, the one holding all the little trinkets from customers. Well, I certainly don’t need this if I want him to think that I’m tidy. I drag it out and sort the objects.

Buttons, grocery lists. And a folded note with green flowers. See? I knew I didn’t forget yesterday.

I unfold it and feel my heart skipping like I’m a little girl with a crush. It’s a shame that I smeared the name when I first opened it – you can’t read it at all anymore, but the sentiment is clearly for me. After all, reading his handwriting of my name is nothing compared to hearing him whisper it.

I knew I’d remember.


	2. Chapter 2

“Luka! You can’t go any further, don’t you know what’s going on?”

Along with my bag of necessities on my shoulder, I’m carrying an arm’s load of fabric for my session with Kaito today – but Gumi intercepts me like a flung arrow, nearly pulling me over with her excitement. I try to shift the fabric away from her. We’re going to be working on her kimono and I don’t want the surprise to be spoiled.

“What is it, Gumi?” I ask. “It seems we only see each other in a panic, now.”

Gumi is looking down Enbizaka Street with a dire focus in her stare. At least she isn’t peering at my fabric. “That new guy…he’s being interrogated. Another girl went missing. Another foreigner, the teenager. Can you believe it?”

“Here? But the woman who was…it only happened days ago…” The tragedy stings fresh even if I never knew her. And I don’t know this foreigner either. Although it hurts, I suppose I should be grateful – I’ll know that things are dire when news like this stops shocking me. “They think it was _Kaito_?”

My scowl darkens as Gumi nods. The pervasive suspicion returns, just as violent as any murder.

“What is coming of this town?” I snap. “We suspect any newcomers, now? Is this how we treat our community?”

“Luka, I mean – jeez, unless you think Gakupo took his theatre a little too far…it’s not like anyone else is so suspicious…”

“You know,” I huff, the seal of shock breaking open like ice, “I was once a foreigner as well, and now I’m irreplaceable. You should all take a look at yourselves before you point fingers. You could be ruining an invaluable man.”

Gumi tries to grab my sleeve but I slip away, now storming to the end of the street. Not even the dōshin have the right to suspect him for something so insane. A girl is missing? So what? Teenagers want to scare their parents all the time. Teenagers see shiny futures beyond this village’s fields. She just ran. She’ll come back eventually.

Or not. It’s not as if I care. One less kimono to make.

I shove into the house and find Kaito speaking to the officers in his front room. Everyone whirls to see me as I slam the fabric onto the table and rifle frantically through my bag; I hold up the red notebook and scowl at the officers. I don’t bother to greet them or bow, although they’re the only authority in this tiny lost town.

They look from the book to me. Before I can be reprimanded, I flip it open and show the pages, full of writing.

“For years now, I’ve written down every action I take, every day. You can go through it, if you like, though I warn that I have a bit of a dull routine.” I glance up at Kaito between the broad shoulders of the dōshin, and a brilliant stunned expression is breaking through his deep exhaustion. “Before you suspect Mr. Shion, please look at my notes for the past few days. I’ve been spending almost every hour with him.”

I don’t miss the tinge of dubiousness that the officers trade, faced with this crazy woman. I shoulder between them and open the notebook.

“Two days ago, shall we start here? Look. Kaito was with me, and we worked on kimonos I’m going to gift to the village girls. I have the projects with me if you think I’m lying. And here. Afterwards, we took a walk on the other side of the river, just the two of us.”

Kaito’s brow furrows. I continue.

“We had tea and spoke about his past for long into the night. _I_ might not have many stories, but he’s from far away and had quite a life. Then I let him return to bed, and I went home.” I continue through the next day, reciting the shopping and the lunch that I filled in this morning. As I read, the details flood towards me, urgent and crystal clear, in the way of sensory alert in a panic. And I suppose it _is_ a time to panic. I could be protecting him from arrest.

“After that, we travelled for the afternoon to the next town. I wanted to show him their beautiful springs before they go out of season. We came back late in the night, and as for the rest of it, I’m sure you’ll let a woman and her betrothed have their secrets.”

I snap shut the notebook. I’m ready to scowl at the officers or combat their questions, but Kaito’s face lures my gaze – he looks stunned.

I gently smile at him, tucking the notebook back against my chest. If he wants to put that teenager ahead of me, then I’ll show him with all my strength how much he means to me.

He shakily smiles back.

**.x.**

Three days since she went missing. There are less dōshin milling about Kaito’s house, but despite that, a darkness of a different kind descends: there’s a storm that fogs up all the windows, making even my lanterns seem dim.

But I must work. With all this chaos and all this travelling with Kaito, I’m running late on my kimonos. I just wish he’d let me work on his set of clothes again. He shuts me down when I bring it up. Maybe he feels strange about commissioning a loved one?

In the dark I measure and cut fabrics. I have a light green sash over my lap – it isn’t my usual type of fabric, so it must have slipped in with the rest of the orders by mistake. I feel compelled to use it, though. Perhaps for myself. He likes this colour, doesn’t he? Yes, he does. This bright teal. This long sash, tied up but still brushing my calves when I wear it.

I ready my shears but suddenly notice a dark stain on the blades. Ink? I lift it to the light and see that it’s a dark red.

Blood?

…Why would there be blood?

I must have cut myself. I kick away the fabric, fearful of dirtying it, and hold my hands to the light, but the candle is fickle and the rain makes kaleidoscopes of the moonlight.

Flipping my hands and smearing the skin for pain, my vision blurs. My hands slide through layers of light, white-pale, sickly yellow. Distant, in a moment. Shaking for another. For a second, I blink and I spot the cut, but the clouds race across the moon and it vanishes.

Well, this blood couldn’t have come from nowhere. I get to my feet and fetch the bandage kit under my desk, making sure to not touch anything else. It’s strange – I don’t feel any pain. Some injuries cut so thin that they don’t hurt, like obsidian darts. Maybe my mother’s shears really are that sharp.

I bandage up and go back to work.

**.x.**

_Kaito, hmm… What a strange question. How am I supposed to summarize him when I know so much?_

_How we met is a good place to start. Oh, I wish it was more romantic…I was travelling to the city for the summer. The fashion is so different there, and I wanted to get some new ideas for the autumn season. I’m making festival clothes for all the young girls in the village, you see – and you know, teenagers always want to have the most fashionable thing._

_I met him in a busy market. I’m not used to such crowded places, and I was being tossed about, and I wasn’t sure where to go. But he took my hand to steady me. I’ll never forget his beautiful face in that clear, morning light._

_…Eh, he was with a girl. She had long teal hair. But she looked too young for him. I figured maybe she was a clingy daughter of a friend, thinking she can win over this handsome bachelor._

_His niece?_

_No, he never mentioned having a niece. You’re mistaken._

_Well, she must be back in the city. She didn’t come with him. So it doesn’t matter who she is._

**.x.**

Despite the tragedy, I keep my shop open. The festival season is nearing after all, and so is the cold weather. Today, Miki stands on the platform as I pin fabric around her, and Lily smokes out the open door.

I’m careful with my bandaged hand. I’m using a fresh pair of shears because Miki is wearing white, and they’re frustratingly blunt.

The girls are chatting. Miki says, “It’s just weird, don’t you think? Two weird crimes in a month? Like, really, when was the last time anything bad happened here?”

Lily exhales a cloud of smoke to the street, a hand on her cocked hip. “When Gumi lost control of her stupid ducklings in the market. That’s all I’ve got. And this is, like, mega-level crime. It’s so disturbing.”

“I even feel weird going outside alone. I live _so_ close to his house.”

“Shoot, you do, don’t you?” Lily clicks her teeth on her elaborately painted kiseru. Takes a contemplative drag, and smirks around the smoke that erupts: “You could be taking out the trash and he’d snatch you up. Cut your throat before you could scream.”

“Lily!” Miki whines, and her fists clench near my face. I patiently pin. “Don’t freak me out.”

“There’s no point for you to worry. All the murders are connected, duh.” Lily tosses back her hair. “They’re all related to _him_. Unless you’ve screwed him and just haven’t told me, I think you’re safe.”

“If screwing him’s what it takes, you’re in more danger than me.”

Lily smirks. “That still doesn’t show any motive, though. I seriously don’t think it’s him. It’d be _so_ obvious. Taking all these girls to a secluded town to kill them one by one? No one’s that stupid, not even a maniac. It’s someone else.”

“Who? And why?”

“Dunno. Maybe they want his money. As far as we know, there’s no crazy ex-lover of his running around.” Lily chews the pipe and huffs. “I’m gonna get some air. If I see him coming at me with a hatchet, I’ll scream real loud for you, okay?”

Miki says goodbye through a pout, and I finish pinning together her skirt, hiding a little smirk to myself. We’ve done very well at concealing our relationship, if even a gossip like Lily doesn’t know.

**.x.**

“Are you sure you want to completely retract the order?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I really don’t want you to worry about it anymore. You’re so busy, and I’m not really in the celebrating mood, so…”

I touch the drawing. It’s so smudged at this point, it’s hard to see what the design would be. I carefully smile at Kaito across the table of my apartment. “I understand. That’s very considerate of you.”

“It hardly counts, but I do owe you.” Kaito cards his fingers in his hair, that gesture that seems so very _him_ now; his blue hair sticks up every which way. When did he last sleep? As soon as he puts the hand on the table, I cover it gingerly with my own. “The other day. Thank you for…providing my alibi. It’s so difficult to remember where the hell you were at any given second, you know?”

“Of course. But I wouldn’t forget those days for all the world. I had a wonderful time with you.”

He smiles tepidly at me, slipping his hand away as he chuckles. “Yeah, sure, I had a great time too.”

I take my cue and stand. “Can I get you something to drink, Kaito?”

“Water would be great.” As I leave, I watch him sink his face into his hands. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that he’s been so stressed lately because he _did_ kill those girls. But that’s just stupid, unless he hired an assassin. He’s been with me all this time. In fact, he’s moved in with me for the time being – it’s a little scandalous, but the dōshin treat his house as if _it’s_ the crime scene.

I fill two glasses and return. It upsets me to see him like this. What happened to that bright and enthusiastic man from the first day we met?

“Won’t you rest?” I ask. I set the brimming cups on the table.

He rubs the side of his nose. “It’s hard to do so. I’m constantly…bothered, and I… I _shouldn’t_ feel this way, but I feel so lonely.” His voice is rough and distant. “I’m probably being selfish, because, God, if there was ever anything that was less about my problems it’s _this,_ but I can’t help – thinking that I’m alone again.”

“With the authorities keeping such a close eye on you… no wonder you feel that way.” I delicately pet flat the hair on the back of his head. It’s growing out at the bottom, hiding that perfect, effeminate W shape of his hairline, peaking with shallow shadows of his spine that vanish down his collar. His hair is damp. Is it raining? Did he go to the market for us? That was on my list for today. He’s so responsible. He’ll make a good father one day.

I say, “The shadow will pass with time. Perhaps slowly, but all things pass.”

Kaito sighs into his palms. “How do you even stand me?”

I blink. Pet his hair gently again. “What do you mean? How could I not?”

“Don’t I… I mean, everyone suspects me – the deaths seem to follow me like a swarm.” He glances back at me, blue eyes suddenly pleading. “Don’t I remind you too much of it?”

“Of what?” I try to lock the implications together and come up emptyhanded. Deaths? What deaths were in my life? “Remind me of my mother?”

“No. Of…” He looks at me for a very long time. It’s a stare that twists my stomach, simmers in my heart. He enunciates carefully, “You were the one who found Miku.”

I delicately laugh. The sound shivers like glass. “You really haven’t been sleeping. You’re speaking nonsense.”

He seems almost offended. “Don’t you know what I’m talking about?”

“Miku – that doesn’t sound familiar. If I’d found her, I would know.” I shake my head. I can’t stop giggling, but it really isn’t funny; I somehow can’t find a way to get ahold of myself. Or my surroundings. I feel like a million shaky threads unravelling. I hold onto the back of his chair. Why doesn’t that name mean anything? If it matters to him, it should matter, to me, right? What is it? Who is she? Why is he always talking about other women?

He’s holding my wrist, an urgency in his expression, brows knit together like the day I read my schedule to the officials. Something in his grip lets me find my footing, become still and silent again, take a breath and stop. Who is she?

“Luka,” he says.

“Kaito,” I say. “I’m sorry. Everything is just…”

“No, I understand. I’m the one who’s sorry. They told me not to bring it up with you.” He lets go of my wrist, but it’s slow and wary, like he’s stepping back from an animal he thinks might bite. What did I do? Why do I seem to be doing everything wrong? _Who is she?_

This town feels like it’s wobbling on its hinges. It makes me dizzy. I sigh and run my hand down his shoulder; the other hand is still bandaged and I bring it around his chest, sinking against his back. He smells like autumn. It must have rained. Wet leaves and fresh bark. He smelt like this the day I met him.

“Luka, can you please – “ He carefully slips a hand under my arm and pushes. I lurch off, and my hand strikes the cup of water; it wildly tips, soaks my arm, and goes racing across the floor. He whispers a swear, and ducks away from me to go chasing after it. Pushing me off like that – he really should sleep. I reach for a towel, but he stops me.

“Your bandage. It’s soaked.”

“So it is.” I close my fist around the white fabric; it’s sticky and already feels heavy. Of course; it’s meant to soak up blood from greater wounds than what I had. “Don’t worry. My shears just slipped.”

“It’s not gonna be of any help now. Do you have fresh bandages?”

“Now you’re so concerned for me? Capricious, aren’t you?” I gently smile to show I’m joking; I’m no snow queen. “Can you help me change it?”

He nods, throws down a towel on the puddle, and I lead him to the pantry. He cuts the length of white bandage that I indicate (I still don’t need to measure – eyeing something like this is child’s play) and starts to unravel the wet one on my hand.

He asks, “You said your shears slipped? I hope you didn’t ruin any of your work.”

“It was fine.” I frown slightly. “It was a lot of blood, though.”

It really was. I remember the rusted marks on my shears. Anything that made so much blood must have really hurt. It wasn’t that long ago. During a storm. I remember the dim light. I didn’t ruin the fabric. Right? Did I? I would hate to start something over because of a silly mistake. It was so much blood. Enough blood to stain metal. How could I have done that?

He peels off a layer of bandage.

I cut my hand. Obviously. I slid open the shears and misjudged my hands in the dark and bit down – I always cut fast because it’s so easy to me – they bit down hard. Into the muscle of my palm, at the base of my thumb. I remember how it pinched at first, such a tiny amount of pain, and then as I jerked away the pain unfolded and the blood dripped down my arm.

There was so much blood.

I’m not even sure if I washed the shears.

He peels off another. The back of my hand is damp and exposed. His thumb shifts against mine – a dart of pain slashes up my arm and I bite back a whimper.

Kaito glances at me. Continues unravelling. My God, my God, the cut was so deep. I have seen these shears slip through cotton and satin and silk and skin. Easily, like an oar in water. So much power behind it. So little resistance to its demands. My hand is sparking with agony. In his palm it twitches.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Does it hurt that badly?”

“Yes,” I gasp. “Please, be careful.” I don’t want to see this cut. Centimetres deep. Three centimetres. Into flesh worn rough from work. Not a warm woman’s hands, or a teenager’s hands. It’s deep and bloody. I stained my fabrics. I stained the teal sash, too deep to scratch out. I didn’t wash the shears.

“I’ll be quick, don’t worry.”

I didn’t wash the shears. I didn’t wash the shears. I didn’t wash the shears.

The last of the bandage falls away. My hand is on fire.

He turns my hand. Turns again. There’s nothing. It’s soft from the water. Pale enough to see veins.

“Bandage it up,” I sob. “ _Now.”_

**.x.**

“Luka…you might think me too forwards, and I apologize for that, but…” Kaito stirs his soup idly, hardly giving me a glance, “Could I possibly…live here, for a while? Until things calm down?”

I laugh. Not behind my hand this time. We’re open with each other. “Live here? What do you mean? Do you not want your own room anymore?”

He stops stirring. “Sorry?”

“You already live here. Imagine that, me, not living with my husband…” I smirk to myself, tossing back my long hair. I don’t trim it anymore. “You say the strangest things sometimes.”

**.x.**

“I’ll drag you out of this town by the hair if I have to.”

“I’m not leaving.”

I set the tray of tea on the patio table. Kaito discusses with Yuuma, who just arrived the other night; he’s tall and willowy, polite but firm, and seems to think he knows what’s best for us.

I don’t know why he thinks he can barge into our home, demanding that Kaito leave with him. He has a life here, now. Sure, it needs some reparations when it comes to reputation, but that will fix itself in time. And besides, who needs the public when we have each other?

Yuuma mutters, “What could possibly make you want to stay? You can’t even go to your own home anymore. We’re a few rumours away from the whole village marching with pitchforks.”

Kaito shakes his head. He’s been so frantic lately – an extra twitch to his movements, an extra sharpness to his gaze. “I can’t run away. They still haven’t found Meiko’s…they haven’t found Meiko. What if she’s okay?”

I pour tea for Yuuma; he stares at it as if he’s trying to still its ripple with his mind. “If the dōshin haven’t found the man, _you_ won’t.”

“I don’t want to play vigilante, I only…”

Yuuma carefully lifts his cup without even nodding at me. Being patient for these strangers is so frustrating. Yuuma mumbles, “Maybe it’s not even a man.”

It takes Kaito a second, but he groans.

Yuuma presses, “We’ve all read the lore, you know.”

“You’re the only one crazy enough to still believe in those things. Demons and hauntings. It isn’t that. I’m being targeted.” Kaito lifts angrily in his seat. “You know, for someone who thinks the town is cursed, you sure were flippant about bringing _her.”_

“You’re not the only one who misses Meiko and Miku.” Yuuma takes a long sip of his tea and melts into his seat. “I couldn’t leave Rin alone back home.”

“There’s an obvious pattern here, Yuuma. You were being stupid.”

“I’m close to you as well. Maybe I’ll die.”

“Please don’t joke about that.”

Into his teacup he mumbles, “I’m not joking.”

All this talk is depressing. I slip inside the shop, keeping an eye on the sketchy blonde girl as she mills about the shop. She must be in her early teens, even younger than Gumi. She’s pretty in a pixie-like, demure sort of way. I feel like a giantess next to her. She has tiny wrists, both easily pinned by a fist. Narrow hips, fitting like seashells in a palm. Not like me.

Nothing like me.

I can’t help the feeling that she’s judging me. In her hair is an intricate gold ornament, shaped like a lotus. It jingles slightly as she walks. It must be a prized possession – she’s not fancy enough to wear that sort of thing every day.

I watch the men come inside. Kaito ruffles her hair. And of course he compliments her on the hairpiece.

…Why do his attentions continue to stray?

Why are the names of so many women poisoning my house?

They’re an endless swarm I must stamp out before they disease us.

**.x.**

We lay on the patio as the stars come out. Swirls of smoke spread above us, gauze over the moon.

Our heads are near, sharing the same cushion. A kiseru balances in his long fingers, the scent thick and heady, homely. This is our home. We don’t have many moments like this. Just us, in the quiet. In the cool dark.

I lift my hand between us, fingertips brushing his temple. I feel him thickly swallow.

“…Luka, tell me again, how did we meet?”

“Why? You were there, weren’t you, silly?”

“Yes, but…I like the way you tell it.”

I can’t help but smile. My pulse skips like I’m in this scenario for the very first time. “In the city,” I say dreamily. I close my eyes until all the crisp details flow around me like snowflakes. “Outside the theatre.” The smells of cured woods and fresh makeup. Tinge of alcohol, the shimmer of bells that rang in my chest. “You were coming home, autumn rain in your hair.”

“I see.”

“Do you remember it that way?”

“Of course I do…”

I stroke his cheek. The soft, sun-touched skin of a city mouse. He’s seen so much more than I, and yet he came here to my modest town…just to be with me.

Just me.

Only me.

He suddenly turns onto his elbows and leans above me. He looks ephemeral and beautiful in the dark, shadows and moonlight painting him like watercolour. I brush my hand on his jaw. With the moon behind him and the lanterns on the wood, there it is again – the sliding doors of light. The passageways into what is and what might be. He glows in them all.

Before I realise what’s happening, he kisses me.

He seems to tumble into it at first, but relaxes, and the world dissolves into moonlight around me. Strange, how it always feels like the first time.

Kaito pulls away. He hovers above me. His breathing tastes of smoke, slipping between my parted lips.

I’m not wife-like, I’m not thin and moody, and I am not demure. And yet he still wants to kiss me. Perhaps I should be wearing the laurel after all.

He says, “What happened?”

I smile coquettishly. “You kissed me, dear.”

His eyes search my face. He settles back on his side, his warmth seeping away from my clothing. “No,” he enunciates as if he isn’t sure I know the language, “I didn’t.”

I narrow my eyes playfully. What kind of game is this? “Yes, you just kissed me.” I touch my lips. I wouldn’t forget in a millennia, much less in mere seconds. “Why else would you be sitting up like that?”

“I was just fanning away the smoke.” Lifting the kiseru, he gently smiles. “You’re mistaken. It’s all right. Maybe the night is making you dreamy. I didn’t kiss you.”

I don’t understand what he’s getting at, but I’d like to go back to our romantic quiet. “You’re right,” I say, lips quirking. “Nothing happened at all.”

“There you go. I’m feeling tired, too.” And he lays back down into the shadow. His long, deep sigh dissolves into fog around the moon.

**.x.**

With the festival this week, I’ve closed the shop to prevent any forgetful girls from stumbling in and asking that I rush a new order because they let the dates get away from them while I’m working on everything else.

Most of the kimonos are finished; I just need to pair them with ribbons or hairpieces. I cut and tie strips of shiny ribbon, holding them to the chests of the clothes to see if they match. I’m always proud of my work, but with this set comes a deep sort of bliss since they’re gifts, and they’ll all be on display when I finally publicly announce Kaito and I’s marriage at the festival.

We went out of town to do it. I felt like that much pure excitement and joy might curdle in this dark town, sour as it is towards him. Hopefully when I announce it they’ll see that he’s a righteous man. They trust my judgements. They’ll see: there’s nothing to fear.

I pull from my accessories box an elaborate golden hairpiece. On the end of the pin is a gilded lotus carved by expert hands, the tips of the petals slightly sharp. Tiny, glittering gems hang in a curtain, arranged around the leaves. This one isn’t like anything made here. I got it from the city when I travelled there this summer.

I delicately arrange the gems and hold it up. It throws pearls of light around the room, like it makes its own golden galaxy.

Tilting my head, I place it against the chest of the red kimono. I wasn’t sure at first, but I decided that the teal sash would match it well. Especially if Kaito likes it. If he has any doubts about marrying me – if he wants to speak about other women – then hopefully this will remind him where his loyalties lie.

**.x.**

There’s been another murder.

It’s almost impossible to believe. This nearly lends credence to Yuuma’s stupid theory about the supernatural.

Why did this have to happen?

Why today?

_Why today?_

Beside me, I have placed the new kimono, ready for changing. I drag my hand along the fabric as I look out the window. It’s strange…just a few houses down, between the shifting group of officials, the morning sun is crisp on blackened streaks in the dirt. The body must have been dragged. Across the street, familiar faces are being questioned. I idly finger the shimmering accessory.

Odd, how I no longer feel stunned.

I step back and the glass of the window shifts in focus, so my reflection is crystal clear instead. I lift the kimono to my silhouette, prop the hairpiece on my crown. The red kimono had to be tightened for my size, but it flows perfectly. A fresh red, a deep red, golden dye dancing around my collar. The light of the hairpiece dances on my face – my blue eyes, fanned with thick black lashes. The image outside blurs beneath my figure and the trail of blood smears across my white skin. Strange how this outfit seems so familiar.

I find that my days are melting together lately. As if I’m walking in a dream.

“Luka?”

Kaito! Wasn’t he supposed to be out this morning? He’s calling from downstairs.

“ _Luka_!”

Well, now he’s yelling. How rude. I shuck the outfit and hurry to the stairs and he’s at the bottom, hand white-knuckled against the wall, face pale like a ghost.

“What’s happened?” I say.

He seems lost for words. I sway down the steps until I reach him and the words break from him unbidden, like a vase smashed and scattering, “Rin’s dead.”

I search his eyes. He’s looking right at me, but his mind is somewhere else.

He repeats for himself, “She’s dead. All of them are. I’m…I’m the only connection.”

“Don’t say that,” I shush. “Did this city’s suspicions get to you?”

“It’s not true, I swear,” he gasps, and again, the hand rushing through his hair isn’t charming or casual. It’s a clawed scrabble for something he isn’t finding. He does it again. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I believe you.”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe, they all think – “ He whirls to the door, still holding the wall as if he’ll blow away. “Th-they’re all saying that I – “

My heart seizes. I can’t believe it’s come to this. “I’ll talk to them, don’t worry. We’ll sort this out. I know you didn’t hurt anyone.”

My hand lifts and as soon as it touches his shoulder he grabs my arm and shoves me out of the alcove. He holds onto me, grip biting. My breath catches.

“Of _course_ I didn’t hurt anyone,” he pants, and his mouth tries to form around words that don’t come. I squirm under his grip. He’s far too close, all the planes and angles of him sharp and unfamiliar.

“Kaito – “

“Because _you_ did.”

I blink at him, lost. “What?”

He lets go, stumbling back. It isn’t shock. It’s as if he’s suddenly found all the wisdom in the world. “You did it. You killed them. Right? Meiko? Miku?”

I shake my head. I suddenly feel too weak to stand. “Who are these people?”

“Of course you did. They never spoke to me. No one ever thought it was _me_.” He presses his hands to his chest, hands wide and trembling. “They think it’s you. They always have. Haven’t you been listening?”

“You’re frightening me,” I whisper. I try to move past him into the shop, into the streaks of light across the floor. Every step feels like it will plunge me through the earth. The villagers thought it was him. Didn’t they? Didn’t I write that down?

He follows at a run and puts himself between me and the door. “You – with the – yes, you did it. With a pair of scissors. That’s what you’ll say. Repeat it to me, Luka. You _did_.”

“ _Stop_ it!” He drags me by the arm through the shop, searching for something. I should fight back, but there’s no strength in me, his words stabbing needles into my nerves. I didn’t do it. I know that. I would never. Last night, I was…

The shears, they were…

…When was the last time I washed them?

He knees open my drawer and takes out a pair. My mother’s pair, the ones I hid away after I cut my hand. My hand. It’s knotted in Kaito’s shirt. It doesn’t hurt. There wasn’t a cut.

But I remember blood. I remember the feeling. Perfectly sharpened metal sliding through skin, like an oar in water.

Did my friends really think I did it?

He thrusts the shears at me. “These. It was these. That’s what you’re going to tell them, because it’s the truth, okay? I never kissed you, and we met in the city, and we’re fucking _married_ , and you killed everyone, Luka.”

I take the shears. Gently. My hand is shaking so much that the light from the window singes the metal and shimmers in my face. Blinding, vanishing, blinding. Stepping into the light and out of it. Between the places where things are, and where they can be. Somewhere in this veil, I remember that I had found my mother hanging from the rafters, and I had held her swaying hand. I grab onto him to stay steady.

Perfectly sharpened metal, sliding through skin.

He never kissed me.

…He never kissed _me_.

“Don’t you…” He stumbles through a jagged laugh, “Well, don’t you _remember?”_

**.x.**

The town seems so unsettled today. This isn’t the joyous festival atmosphere that I wanted.

I wear my new kimono – red with delicate gold patterns, a teal sash that brushes against my calves, and the last glorious addition: a gilded lotus hairpiece, gems tickling my ear and neck. I walk through the village. Kaito and I decided that we would announce our news on the bridge, so that is where I’m heading.

Heading, walking, swaying, _floating_. I feel ethereal in these clothes. I feel like I’ve finally become that beautiful statue, no longer that shapeless icy marble from when I first met him.

I adjust my sleeves. My arms have bracelets of fresh bruises, spaced evenly. The bright fabric will cover them. I stroll to the bridge, careful in my sandals as I scale the uneven slats; luckily I can wait by the secure railing so I don’t have to risk stumbling when I make my big announcement.

The creek happily gurgles. I look into the sun, swelling on the horizon. Where could he be? I hope he didn’t forget.

My reflection is bright in the water, so in the meantime, I lean over the edge and watch the fish swim by. There’s jewels of light glancing off their scales, off the little ripples of water, and off the hairpiece in the reflection. There’s so much light, spinning.

The image of me is mostly red. This kimono fits me perfectly, and the laurels shine. Laurel, meaning victory. They’re spattered with something. Now that I squint, I see that my face is, too.

I touch my cheek. My fingertips come back tacky and red, red as the dye. That’s strange.

I step back. On the wooden railing is a dark smear of scarlet, right where my stomach was pressed. I glance down; the teal sash is drenched. I touch it. It’s warm. The pinpricks of sun flash into my eyes and it stings.

There’s so much light. I hold out my hand to shield my face.

When is he coming? Hopefully he’ll still recognise the colours in the fabrics. The pale marble of my skin. My mother’s pink hair.

Wearing this, I’m as lovely as all the women who I batted off like annoying flies – I’m better than all of them combined. Everything he wants me to be, I am.

Everything but a liar.


End file.
